


Inferno, Incaesor

by Incaensor



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Darkfic, Dorian Has Family Issues, Dragon Age AU, Gen, M/M, Master/Slave, Multi Chapter, Other, Slow Build, Slow Romance, slave!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4913521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incaensor/pseuds/Incaensor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has been surrounded by slaves his entire life, and his moral compass is shot. With his arranged marriage and Magister duties sliding ever closer, he finds solace in what he can and when he can. On his sixteenth birthday, his father buys him a slave, and bit by bit, he starts to question everything he ever believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> Here's chapter 1. If you like it, please leave feedback! : D

 

Dorian's family had always had slaves, so it wasn't a surprise when his father told him that he was going to be attending the next slave auction.

 It was, however, a surprise when he informed Dorian that as he neared the age of sixteen, other nobles and magisters would be expecting him to attend the slave sellings, grand events which piled as many fat nobles and Magisters as possible into the grand marble hall.

 

 Dorian looked up from his book - a dull sort of affair about warring Magisters and meddling Quinari - and fixed his father with a quizzical gaze. "What about my schooling?” He thought of his dull Tevinter history lecture later, which he was, honestly considering ditching in favour of exploring a small cave he had found, north-west of their estate.

 

 "This is schooling, Dorian. Not everything has to come from a book or a professor." He rolled his eyes, motioning towards the novel in Dorian's hands. "Utter tripe, that stuff." The magister said. “You’d be better off reading something historical – didn’t Magister Vale assign you Tevine History, volume one?”  
His brows knotted together. “I hope you’re keeping on top of your schooling, Dorian.”

 

 Dorian nodded, but didn't bother to tell his father that he was only reading this because all the interesting books had been banned; a lot of them had been deemed inappropriate, depraved, or frowned upon. Which, in itself, wasn’t unique; Dorian’s father frowned upon mostly everything, and so did the rest of the Magisters.

 Dorian thought they were great - huge, thick tomes about action and adventure and tall, strong heroes - but they'd all been locked away, behind lock and key. His mother had told him they were unsavoury propaganda, not suitable for a young noble such as himself, but that didn’t deter him. He had even penned a few pages himself, though they were hidden beneath the floorboards in his room, his whimsical imagined adventures little more than sycophantic battles between mages and demons.

 He shrugged, and hopped down from the fountain, smoothing his hair with one hand; he saw his father watching, disapprovingly, out of the corner of his eye. "Come on, stop messing around. All the best ones will have gone by the time we get there, and we can't let that happen again."

 

 

So, once a week for the next few weeks, Dorian accompanied his father to the slave auction. It was a little shocking, at first.  


 He was used to elves as slaves, servants, yes: but he wasn't used to seeing them in chains and dirty clothing, tears streaking down cheeks painted with vallasin.  
His eyes fixed on a little Elven girl; no older than five years. She was crying, perhaps for her mother, perhaps for her home; Dorian didn't know any Dalish. He looked over, eyes sympathetic, curious.  
  
 "Isn't she too young?" He asked his father, eyes wandering around the room, looking at all of the fat, old magisters.  
A few of them had brought their sons, many of their aged similarity to him, or older. His father's eyes narrowed in disapproval, and he shushed him.  
  
 "It is not your business to pass such judgements, now, be quiet. You have a lot of learning to do, and a lot of Magisters and nobles to meet. I don’t want you to make a bad impression, as my heir. You understand how important this is to me – to all of us.”  
  
 Dorian swallowed, and sat up straighter in his seat as the auction began. He didn't want to let his father down or make a mockery of their family. The thought of being Magister Pavus sent a thrill through him, something unknown and strange tingling in his fingertips.

And so he stopped wondering about the elves, or caring about what was right or wrong, stopped questioning the small pangs of guilt when he saw his father backhand a young elf servant for accidentally burning the food, or missing a small amount of dust, or even looking at him in the wrong way.

The next few months passed in a haze of schooling, incredibly dull lectures, and long afternoons spent sipping wine with Nobles and Magisters and other events he was expected to attend, as the Magisters son. The only small victory were the great barrels of wine that accompanied such events, and nobody complained if Dorian’s tongue was perhaps a smidge too loose, for theirs were, too.  It was all so perfect and petty, and Dorian was growing to hate it. Resentment built in him, slowly but surely, for all of these people with all these great expectations for him…that he wasn’t so sure that he could meet. Not anymore.

 

He was drunk when the first traitorous words left his lips. Drinking leisurely with Rilienus on a sun-kissed  Sunday afternoon, lethargic and indulgent, the sun streaming in through the windows, bathing them both in late afternoon sunlight.  
  
“Don’t you ever feel like you’re meant for something more than…” Dorian flapped one of his hands, lacking the articulation, alcohol in his veins.  
  
“More than..?” Rilienus asked, his lips curving in an amused smile.  
  
“Don’t you ever want to..stretch your legs?” Dorian managed, swallowing another mouthful of wine.  
  
Rilienus stretched his legs and smirked. “I do believe you are drunk, Dorian.”  
  
Dorian shook his head. “I’m not – well, I am, but that isn’t the point. The point is.. don’t you ever feel like you’re in a box? Cramped? A caged bird?”

“A caged bird that has everything it wants, the finest luxuries, the most beautiful women and a father that rules all? Oh, Dorian, you jammy bastard. You’re spoilt.”  
  
Dorian sat up, staring through the window. “It’s not that I don’t want to be Magister.”  
  
“You’re lucky, Dorian. Your father’s estate is grand and beautiful and you’re in line to inherit it. You’ll be Magister in two years – you can do what you bloody well please.”

 

“And then what do I do? Father a million children to pass on my oh-so-revered blood? What am I after that? I’m just a pawn.”  
  
“I think the wine has gone to your head.” Rilienus said, rolling his eyes. “You’re mad. To not want what you have. Think of the women, they’ll throw themselves at you. You can have hundreds of illicit affairs, bed anyone you want.”  
  
Dorian just sighed, and shrugged. “Forget I said anything. It must be the wine. That and Magister Cariosus’s  lectures. They bore me to tears. Makes all sorts of nonsense fly around my head.”  
  
Rilienus huffed. “You’re his best student. You practically passed that necromancy exam with no errors whatsoever; your father was pleased as punch, my father told me. Asked me why I wasn’t as good as you! Twat. I said, who needs necromancy when you have blood magic?” He paused. “Oh, I didn’t tell you about the new servants.”  
  
Dorian stretched and yawned. “Oh? Your father parted with a decent chunk of cash, I heard.”  
  
“Not only that, but they do anything they want you do.” Rilienus continued, eyes sparkling. “They’ve got this spell on them, something to do with blood magic. Elves are ugly, but they’re good for a fuck-“  
Grimacing, Dorian stood. “I think I’m going to retire to my chambers for the night. I have to be in Minrathous with my father tomorrow, and I need my beauty sleep.”  
  
Rilienus waved his hand, and stood. “Don’t you talk to me about beauty sleep, you beautiful bastard. I’d better be off, anyway. Said I’d help father with some duties tonight.”  
  
Dorian nodded, his mood considerably dampened. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the topic of conversation; it swirled around in his stomach, heavy and sickly and acidic.  
  
“Vitae benefaria, Pavus.” Rilienus said, his steps echoing down the wing as he left.  
  
Dorian made it to the lavatory just as a mixture of wine and bile ejected itself up his throat, and he retched for a good few minutes. The mixture swirled, frothy and red, and even though Dorian knew it was wine, all he saw was blood.

 

 


	2. Damn These Vampires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2. Unbeta'd and doubtlessly full of mistakes! The song for this chapter is "damn these vampires" by the mountain goats. I'm awful at naming chapters, so I apologise. Enjoy. Again sorry for my awful spacing.

His legs were cramping beneath him, and he tried to shift, biting his lip as the cuff around his ankle pulled, the shackles tinkling a quiet reminder of his captivity.

 

He didn't know where they were going. Not that he ever did, of course. The cart was moving, the hoof beats of the horse somewhat soothing. Every so often, they'd go over an uncomfortable bump, and he'd find himself jolted awake from his dozing.  
You grabbed whatever sleep you could, whenever you could - plus, he didn't know how long he might have to be stood up for, later. So he'd take this rest, however cramped and uncomfortable it might be.

The cart was slowing now, though, and he stretched slowly, tentatively; for he knew that his limbs would cry out with vicious cramps if he moved too fast, and he let out a long, quiet breath. His feet were completely numb, half from sitting on them and half from the shackles around his ankles, and he wiggled his toes.  
Didn't want to fall over and earn himself a lashing; though, he had the idea that they were selling him on, and any visible brusing reduce his value considerably.  
Nobody wanted a bruised, beaten slave.   
Not when they were paying a considerable amount of gold, anyway.  
  
After a few minutes, the cart door opened, and harsh daylight streamed in. His eyes burned, and he squinted, resisting the urge to bring a hand up to cover them.

"He looks a mess, he's covered in dirt. Andraste, does nobody care about our standards?" The slaver was stout, but he looked strong. He also looked like he wouldn't hesitate to stick a boot up your arse if you stepped even an inch over the line.

  
A collar was fixed around the elfs neck with a metallic click, and he wanted to cringe away from the cold, heavy metal.  
  
  
He stepped out into the sun, pulled by the chain clipped on to the collar.  
Like many elves, his features looked somewhat otherworldly, strange; faces too long, eyes too large, noses too thin. His face was long, but not long enough to be horselike; his tongue came out to wet lips that were tacky with sweat. His neck long and thin, and his ears long and pointed.

"Let's get you cleaned up before the auction."

  
He tried not to think about the cold biting into his skin as he scrubbed himself with a bristle brush and cold water, the slaver watching him with absent eyes.

He was hit with a pang of sadness as he remembered the faces he would probably never see again. His previous owner had been a piece of work, alright; but he got on with the other slaves there a lot better than most. Cyrran, Nellen, little Lialla. He worried about Lialla the most - they all did - a tiny elf girl, not even past her eleventh summer, who always caught the eye of the Magister. He would watch her in a sick, perverse way, and as much as they tried to keep her in the kitchens, in the quarters away from him.

  
But he always asked for her. Always...wanted.

  
He shook his head, sending a shower of water droplets into the air as he feverently tried to clear the thoughts from his head. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. There's nothing you can do.

  
He had told her stories, though. He did that much. They would sit, freezing and blue, in front of the stove in their quarters. He told her of great elven warriors, brandishing great swords, slaying those who wronged them. Impossible tales of revolution and bravery, each growing more impressive than the last. It kept the light in her eyes, but the light in his had already been extinguised. Nothing more than fantasies to him, burning his eyes with tears and his tongue with lies.

"Hurry up." The Slaver said, and the elf began to towel himself quickly, taking care to try and dry beneath his collar,drying his hair as much as he could with the thin, damp towel.

"They should have shaved you bald." The slaver said to him, crossing his arms across his chest. "Don't see the point in shaving both sides and leaving the top. Did you have lice?" He looked concerned for a second.

 

Shook his head in reply. No. Not allowed to talk. Unless it was completely neccesary.

"You'll fetch some coin, regardless of your botched hair job. Your master says you will, anyway. Personally, you're not the sort I'd go for. Why go for fuck ugly anorexic bastards like you when you can go for an elven girl?" He paused. "I suppose if they close their eyes, they can pretend you're a girl. Name?"

 

He hadn't talked in days, and his throat was so dry and tight. "Kierael."

 

"Number, you stupid fuck."

He blinked, cursing his own stupidity. "1853."

 

The slaver turned and began looking through the cart for something, muttering to himself in annoyance.

 

Kierael stayed perfectly still, his hair still dripping slightly. It was warmer here, wherever they were, and the skies were bluer. But the air was different - moister, somehow - unlike the arid, dry place he had lived in before.  
He had seen a map before, and in a huddle with the other slaves, tried to figure out where they were. But none of them could read, and even though they knew where they were by tongue, it was useless when you didn't know which letters went where.

  
A bundle of clothes hit his chest.

"Hurry up. We're slightly behind schedule, thanks to the weather. Harts dropping dead because of the heat."

He quickly dressed himself. These clothes were decidedly nicer than what he had worn before, little more than glorified rags; but these were of some quality. Some black pants, form fitting, and a long-sleeved shirt, also black and tight.

  
"Right, to the auction house. I suppose Marie will want to see you before you go out on display."

He didn't know who Marie was, though he assumed she would be someone poking and prodding at him to make sure he hadn't smuggled in anything incriminating.

A hour later, he was sat on a stool in front of a woman. She was extravagant by every defination of the word. Her hair was piled in curls on the top of her head, and her face was so painted that she looked extremely intimidating.   
She had a mole on her cheek, though he assumed she would call it a beauty spot. Her lips were small, but adorned in so much gloss and pencil that they looked much bigger than they really were.   
Compared to her, he felt very small and very vunerable.  
She had raised her pencilled eyebrows when she saw him, and made a tutting noise of unamusement.

 

"Your hair is a mess. I will fix it, however; Magister Barvoli had better pay me extra for fixing this hack job."

She had an accent that he recognised, but he couldn't place it.

The world was very confusing when you couldn't place words on maps, or words anywhere, for that matter. The only thing he had deciphered so far was that he was in a more affluent region than where he had been before. Through a crack in the cart walls, he had watched yellow hills of grass roll by, great estates made of marble and granite shimmering in the distance like mirages.

  
He sat quietly, back straight, as she worked on his hair; he hadn't told anyone that he had shaved it himself. He was punished; lashings across his arse, his ankles, his wrists. He knew it was stupid, to take it into his own hands; but his body barely felt like it belonged to him.

It was a display of ownership on a body that barely felt like his.

  
"Let's get something on that face of yours. Oh, your eyes are lovely. Not quite green, not quite grey. I know they like blue eyes, big blue eyes, but yours will do. I have an idea."

She rubbed some kind of flowery smelling lotion on his face, and then she brought a black pencil to his face. With no gentleness, she held his eye open, drawing underneath them. He couldn't see them, but he could guess that she had drawn black around his eyes, like he had seen before at other auctions.

He blinked gratefully after she had finished, and swallowed.

"I'll call Divali to take you out, now." She said, her voice an emotionless fluster of accented words. She said it in the same way a farmer would reassure a lamb before it went to slaughter.

 

The afternoon passed in a boring, lethargic display.

He had been standing for hours, and his legs were numb, but it wasn't anything he wasn't used to. He was poked, prodded, sneered at by Noblemen and women. His lips were pulled back by insistent fingers, his chin lifted, his hair stroked. All by complete strangers, strangers that could own him in a few hours. He tried not to think. He tried not to think which pompous bastard would be taking him home, he tried not to think of the cold basements he would be sleeping in, he tried not to think about disgusting greasy fingers trailing across his skin.

He didn't even look at any of the other slaves.

He didn't want to think about them. It made him miss his friends, all of the friends. The ones that were alive, he worried for. The ones that were dead, he missed.

On the cool, marble floor, Kiereal felt very cold and very alone.


End file.
